


Episode Drabble #2

by uirukii



Series: Turn the Century [4]
Category: The Monstrumologist Series - Rick Yancey
Genre: Gen, Medical Procedures, Modern AU, Turn the Century AU, stupids being stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4528314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uirukii/pseuds/uirukii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Pellinore Warthrop is bereft of his assistant during important medical research and has to make do with the services of another, more irritating companion</p><p>(April 2004)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Episode Drabble #2

**Author's Note:**

> This was a mere drabble thought of on an island in the middle of the Adirondacks for a friend, and thanks to hours of Bruce Hornsby, Phil Collins and Don Henley (aka the shit Will Henry apparently enjoys) what was once a mere look into Pellinore's work turned into something more heartwarming than a medical autopsy warranted.

Dr John Kearns had arrived precisely at noon upon the doorstep of 425 Harrington Lane. Golden hair pulled back in a fashionable queue, affixed with a thin ribbon, he had thumped the knocker in a series of sharp taps and stood smartly off to the side. Despite his long ride from the Adirondacks straddled atop his glistening Triumph motorcycle, his outfit was immaculate, jacket crisp.

His jolly smile faltered a bit when no one answered, and he tested the handle. It did not yield. After a beat or two, he frowned and rolled his eyes.

“Well Pellinore, aren’t you a welcoming fellow.”

He set down his black leather case upon the stoop, reached into his polished riding boots, and with a flick of his wrist, retrieved his Swiss Army knife.  Swiftly removing two of the tools, he began tackling the brass lock.

Kearns hummed merrily, deftly removing the outer bolt lock and moving onto the door handle. It didn’t matter that he had not called to inform the inhabitants of his arrival, nor did they even have the slightest iota that he would be coming in the first place.

Yet he huffed in consternation, as if this was wholly unexpected.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Kearns, bouncing to his feet as the stained oak door clicked in answer. “I shall have to inform Pellinore of his pitifully inadequate security measures. Wouldn’t do to discover my dear friend done in, now would it?”

Stashing his tool in his boot and grabbing his case, he swung the door open with a flourish, drenching the vestibule with much needed sunlight.

“Peeeellinore!”

Kearns strode into the hallway, throwing the door shut. Dust swirled about his boots like sand beneath the tide, dulling the luster. Taking in the overall disuse of the front rooms, he made his way towards the kitchen in the back, well versed in the peculiar habits of his favorite quarry.

Stacks of cups and plates overran the double sink, with many more piled upon the countertop. Kearns made a face at the disgraceful mess, more so at noticing that there was a thin layer of dust over it as well. The kitchen table was utterly buried in papers strewn without any resemblance of order, all done in an untidy and cramped scrawl. A couple papers were adorned with tea rings, the ghostly remnants of hours of toil.

Gingerly placing his case atop the table, he turned towards the basement door. It was cracked open slightly, and a harsh line of fluorescent white slashed through the ambient gloom.

He pulled open the door with gradually, not wanting to alert anyone below. The dull clink of metal complimented the soft litany of lecture that emanated from downstairs. Kearns smirked.

Stealthily padding down the worn wooden staircase, he eased his way down into the doctor’s sanctuary awash in blinding off-white compared to the bleached grey above.

Doctor Warthrop hunched over his specimen sprawled upon the porcelain necropsy table. It was a middle-aged woman, her body tastefully covered with blue medical cloth, save the exposed cranium that Warthrop was currently drilling holes into.

The whirl of the perforator masked Kearns’ descent into the basement until he perched himself on the second step, directly behind the doctor. Kearns was content to watch Warthrop at work, as he gently turned the head and continued his task, the soft rush of sound at rending flesh, and then the grinding as it punctured bone.

Finished with one side, Warthrop paused and swiped his forehead with the back of his limp and bedraggled coat sleeve. No matter how much his assistant bleached and soaked that ratty old lab coat, it still retained the accumulation of his life’s work. No matter how much they offered to get him a new one, Warthrop always refused and kept the one he currently had. Both Kearns and Will Henry believed he’d end up wearing that coat until it fell to pieces off his lanky form.

"Cranial access points almost finished. Left temporal bone as well as the rear parietal proved more substantial than predicted. Specimen had bone density problems in the lower extremities, but so far, cranial bone density seems stronger than average..." the man muttered to himself. He scratched the back of his head with a latex-clad hand, unmindful of the blood that marred it.

"Approximately one minute between each puncture. Three to five seconds for each..."

The man looked to his immediate left, and froze. Dark brows bore upon his narrowed eyes, as if the man was befuddled by the lack of something there.

"Damn it, Will Henry!" he muttered behind his mask, before tackling the corpse with renewed energy. "If it wasn’t for that blasted old man"- _-whiirrrll_ \--"doesn’t he understand work is more important than- _grunt-_ some niece’s asinine birthday party?"

Elbows served and maneuvered themselves into position as he finished the frontal bone. He twisted the head onto its side once more to access the right. Thin dabs of blood rimmed the doctor’s multiple intrusions.

Agitated, he jerked his sleeves up, and rolled his shoulders with a series of pops. Fixing his grip for the final stretch, he resumed his task. His constant mutterings with the occasional expletive tugged forth a smile on the man behind him, as he leaned on his arms against the bannister, arms folded over the other.

The whirling stopped and Dr Warthrop placed the drill on the steel cart to his right. His hand groped the top, bumping into a variety of unacceptable tools before he snapped his head towards the offending instruments.

"Damn it to hell!" shouted Pellinore at the disorderly pile of tools, throwing his hands in the air. "Where did he hide the threadwire saw?"

Throwing irritated glances over the corpse, he prodded it in a variety of places, looking for the missing saw under its sagging flesh. He picked up the skull in both hands and finding nothing, cursed, plopping it back onto the table.

"Ah!" He straightened and then immediately bent over, ragged tips of his coat dragging over his work boots. Digging through the tools beneath the top shelf of his steel cart, he became more distraught as the aforementioned tool did not reveal itself.

"Fuck! Where did Will Henry place my valuable piece of equipment?" Hands clutched at his hair, throwing it into abstract bewilderment.

"You might want to try the countertop to your far left, my dear Pellinore," floated a silky voice, tinged with amusement. "I believe I do spy a particularly nice threadwire perched upon your drafts."

Pellinore jumped with an undignified strangling cry, hands grasping air. Balance regained, he spun around, eyes widening for an instant at the openly laughing figure on the staircase.

Once he registered the intruder as no more than his buffoon of a friend, a certain Dr Jack Kearns, his brows pressed down in displeasure.

"Who even invited you down here Jack? I know I did not give you my express permission to do so."

Kearns cocked his head. "Ah, but you and I both know that I always invite myself." The sunny smile alighted upon his face, his thin moustache quirking with delight.

Pellinore harrumphed at that, eyeing the tool on the table, refusing to acknowledge the man any further. He crossed his arms like a petulant child. His fingers drummed on his forearm, but stilled.

"Jack, how did you get inside?" he asked, turning his dark gaze into swirling grey, "I distinctly recall locking both of my doors once I returned from delivering Will Henry to the clutches of a one Mrs. Bates."

Kearns grinned. "Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me to tell you: you might want to get your locks replaces as they are ever so inefficient!" He swept his arms outwards theatrically. "Why, you are practically inviting unpleasant scoundrels into your home!"

Pellinore snorted. "Like yourself?"

"Why Pellinore, you wound me!" Kearns looked affronted, but dissolved into unmitigated mirth once more. "I am more than a simple scoundrel and you know it."

"My mistake, then," said Pellinore, his gaze once again captured by the corpse upon the table and the saw out of reach.

Kearns recognized that longing gleam that effused from behind his eyes, the self-same glow that often permeated his own.

"Your esteemed assistant-apprentice might not present, but may I offer up a more viable option to your predicament?" smirked Kearns as Pellinore gave him a narrowed glance.

"You are no Will Henry," remarked Pellinore.

"God forbid. I quite like myself as I am, thank you very much. I do not wish to enjoy the beguiling whims of puberty more than once." Kearns winked at Pellinore as he leapt off the stairs, landing upon the balls of his feet. The man sighed behind his mask and rolled his eyes.

 “Well make yourself useful then, Jack,” replied Warthrop, gesturing towards the lone sink where a box of sterile gloves sat precariously on the edge.

Deftly Kearns snapped on the latex, snagged one of the spare coats and pulled on a clean medical mask.

He plucked the threadwire saw from Pellinore’s relatively neat stack of print-outs, and strode to his side. Promptly, he placed the instrument into his awaiting hand.

Immediately Pellinore wrapped one end around his left forefinger and held it in place with his thumb, like floss. Forehead creased in concentration, he threaded the other end through one of the punctures, and fished it out another end. Tightening that end around his right forefinger and thumb, he began sawing the bone in-between the two holes.

For the next hour, Kearns took dictation for Pellinore, as he rattled off facts and observations in his work. The man steadily sawed through the woman’s cranial bones, pulling the threadwire free from the manmade fissures with a grating scratch of metal on bone. Kearns’ handwriting flowed effortlessly and elegantly across the cheap spiral notebook, jotting down bone thickness, time elapse, and muttered conjectures. Sometimes when Warthrop was too enveloped in his task, Kearns would dab at his forehead with his own sleeve, his own coat pockets lacking any sort of spare cloth.

"Ah! Get ready Jack! This is the last one." Warthrop’s pace increased with his excitement, his eyes afire. "Grab the jar behind you on the countertop. I’ll need your steady hand, yes, yes!" He tugged free the wire and with that final cut, the top of the skull budged, like a shell upon a boiled egg.

Kearns nodded, his eyes crinkled at the corners in response to his companion’s breathless anticipation at the unearthing of his prize. Deft hands completed the circuit around the perimeter of the skull and its contents, a thin finger sliding beneath the rim of the bone, releasing its suction.

The hand grabbed the loosened bone, twisted it with a jerk. With a satisfying _squish!_ it popped off as easily as a jam lid.

The brain, grey and curdled, sat sequestered in its cavity. Some bits of it clung to Warthrop’s finger.

"There we go! As I expected!" His body vibrated with a thrill of pleasure. "Now, be ready Jack!"

Pellinore snatched up a pair of scooping forceps and gently plunged them against the rim of the inner skull, sliding the cool implement back and forth, like a burrowing worm. His forearm strained, the muscles pulling taut.

"Ah, here we go!"

A loud squelch sucked into the room and promptly the soft, intact brain removed itself into Dr Warthrop’s awaiting hand, successfully delivered.

“Quick Jack! Sever the medulla oblongata! I need it removed from the rest immediately!” He jerked his hand towards the instruments. “Quickly, quickly!”

Effortlessly, Kearns snapped up a pair of thin forceps and a scalpel, and with preciseness borne of experience, he snapped the ligaments holding the small organ protectively nestled beneath the cerebral cortex and brain stem.

“Now! Sever a bit for the slide analysis Jack! The rest into the preserving solution!”  Warthrop, hands full of rotting cerebral matter, tossed his catch into a spotted steel tray littered with other bits of viscera and cranial bone. Greyish bits of brain gushed out, half liquid, beneath its own burgeoning weight.

Warthrop turned breathlessly, mask rising and falling with his rapid exhalations as he watched Kearns slide the glass plate atop the solution mixture of brain matter and pass it over. Prize in hand, Warthrop bounded over to the swivel stool and plopped himself upon it, spinning into place, the old stool squealing in protest. Warthrop snapped the sample underneath the microscope and instantly began reviewing his work, distractedly divesting himself of his gloves.

Soft exclamations of “oh” and muttered ponderings from the seated scientist lent a steady backdrop to the clink of glass and the metallic grind of a lid snapping shut on the severed remains of the medulla. Another snap followed by a squeak of marker finished the labeling process, and the jar was placed on the burgeoning specimen shelf against the whitewashed walls of the basement.

Once the sharp clink of glass upon glass echoed through the small space, Dr Warthrop stuck a hand into the air, drumming the miniscule bits of shimmering dust, the other preoccupied with turning the focusing lens.

Kearns understood and took a seat by Warthrop’s side, his tall frame folded upon a tiny wooden stool built for someone much smaller than himself. The doctor’s notebook was tossed haphazardly towards him. A pen lay off to the side, and Kearns picked it up, twirling it once in his bare fingers.

Picking up where he left off at the necropsy table, Kearns made note of the time and place of the conversation and began writing Warthrop’s clipped discourse.

 “No sepsis or any kind of indication at all of organ failure or decay. Could be mistaken for fully functional medulla from a living patient rather than a three day old corpse. Cells clean.”

Warthrop scratched this neck with his left hand, tossing the overgrown strands into further disarray over his coat collar.

A few indecipherable mutterings and then-

“How was the rest of the medulla, Jack?” Dark eyes burned feverishly, as if the man behind them was standing on the edge of some precipice. Where most would look away, Kearns held them. Such dazzling fire was a sight that had him always returning to that home upon Harrington Lane, a primal call no different than any migratory creature that follows the instinctive pull home after a long journey.

“The same conclusions I have come up with in regards to the specimen as well. It doesn’t have the characteristics typical of any medulla I have recovered from autopsies, even ones only hours deceased.” said Kearns, taking his own dictation.

The man before him closed his eyes, head thrust upwards at the ceiling. He yanked his light blue mask off his face, exhaled noisily through his patrician nose. And then, ever so slowly, a grin broke out upon his face.

“Let Will and them have their cake, Jack, because this – _this!_ \--will bring down everything!”

And before Kearns had finished pulling off his own mask to respond, Pellinore had leapt off his squealing stool. He pulled Jack to his feet, both hands trembling with excitement as he tugged upon Kearns’ one free hand.

“Oh Jack! Jack! This is it! There are many more tests to conduct and answers to find, but the potential here, Jack!” He had let go of his partner’s hand and paced towards the porcelain dissecting table, the lambent air pulsating around his figure as he swept his arms outwards.

He turned abruptly, the stained lab coat aglow in the florescent lighting, the rust colored splotches bright and stark against so much white and metallic grey. Three steps and he was upon Kearns, who could not keep the answering smile upon his face.

“Shall we tell your loyal assistant-apprentice the good news in person then, dear Pellinore?” chuckled Kearns, tapping his chin in mock thought. “Though I’d think it might be a bit much to steal your boy away from such a grand party with a girl that is absolutely enamored with him, wouldn’t you say?”

“You stop that,” admonished Warthrop and he knocked the man’s waggling finger away. “You’re going to make the poor boy turn redder than a beet if you bring that up and then he’ll be positively useless for anything requiring intellectual stamina for at least a few hours.”

Kearns threw back his head and laughed openly. He fixed Warthrop with a meaningful grin.

“ _Tsk tsk_ , Pellinore. You are the pot calling the kettle black. Shame on you.” He crossed his arms, as he leaned back leisurely upon the doctor’s desk.

“How so? If you are in any way insinuating I turn all gooey brained at the sight of a one Lillian Bates, or any woman for that matter, I shall wipe that outlandish smirk off your face, Kearns.”

"Perhaps not as gooey brained as our friend there," remarked Kearns dispassionately, as if the woman upon the table was merely sleeping, rather than divested of her entire brain. "However, one cannot forget your memorable performance in trying to entertain Will Henry’s highly entertaining question regarding that of the fairer sex--sex in general for that matter--or am I mistaken?"

In one fluid movement, he arched his weight off the mahogany tabletop, body mere inches from Warthrop’s, who stiffened and fixed his gaze upon some point to his left. A slight bit of red tinged his high cheekbones as well as the tips of his ears that peeked through the riotous overgrowth of inky hair. He grumbled incoherently under his breath.

“I didn’t think so,” laughed Kearns, leaning into the small gap beneath their bodies. “After all it was quite humorous and...informative. I’d say poor Willy there got more than he could ever bargain for in regards to an education on that particular topic. I quite enjoyed your tangential foray into the history of French Letters myself. Wherever did you uncover such an in-depth knowledge of such a thing my dear Pellinore?”

And seeing nothing but an increase of the blush staining his cheeks, the dark eyes fixed tightly upon the wall, Kearns laughed, his subtle breath toying with the loose strands framing his friend’s face. Pellinore fidgeted slightly. Smiling, Kearns punched Pellinore lightly in the shoulder, knocking him out of his tense pose.

“John!” exclaimed the startled doctor as he attempted to right himself, but not before finding himself locked in a one-armed embrace, the younger man’s arm hung over his shoulder.

“Come now Pellinore! Though I find your embarrassment highly endearing and quite enjoyable, there is some celebrating to be had, as I will not allow you to either work without food or to crash Will’s fun quite yet.” He proclaimed matter-of-factly, tugging the other man closer to his side. "Though I profess my disdain at how ghastly you’ve been keeping the state of your household."

Pellinore shot Kearns a glare. "Well, excuse me, I’ve been busy. Not to mention I had no intention of entertaining guests any time soon." He huffed.

Kearns glee softened, turning serious. He unwrapped himself from around his companion, and stood before him. Pellinore eyed him beneath his brows, hands hidden in his coat pockets.

"I am very happy for you Pellinore. And I want to be the first in a long line of people to congratulate you on your findings. May I?"

A beat or two of dark eyes holding grey and they closed. Pellinore took a small step close, and plopped his head on Kearns' shoulder, hiding his face in the warm fabric.  He mumbled his acquiescence, hands still in his pockets.

A minute passed of relaxed comfortable silence before Kearns stirred, long golden hair alight and teeth flashing. Fingers plunged into his trousers pocket, quickly removing its find, and then came to rest upon Pellinore’s thick hair. He stroked it, attempting to tame the tempestuous waves. Pellinore murmured something into his shoulder, but made no move to protest. Bolstered by the man’s tacit welcoming of his touch, Kearns combed his fingers through his hair, gathering the wavy strands to the hand that cradled the back of this skull. He took longer than he needed, relishing the feel of Pellinore’s hair against his hands, even if it was in a desperate need of a good wash.

With a quick snap of his wrist and agile fingers, Kearns tamed Pellinore’s hair into an acceptable sprout, complete with a tidy ribbon.

"There! I must admit Pellinore, this is my best handiwork in a desperate situation."

Jolting out of his relaxing stupor upon Kearns’ shoulder, Pellinore shot upright, eyes glazed over slightly. They snapped into focus as he registered the nonsense that spilled from Kearns mouth.

"What? What did you do?" His hands flew to his head. "You took liberties with my person!"

"I do remember telling you that I am quite irreproachable Pellinore. What did you expect?" Kearns laughed at Pellinore, hands aflutter atop his head. "Also, ‘taking liberties with your person’, Pellinore?" Kearns raised one brow. "My, my if that’s indecent, what I do in my spare time must be positively scandalous!"

Pellinore’s mouth fell open and then snapped shut. He threw his gaze away from his teasing friend. "I am not even going to grace your foolishness with a comment."

Kearns hooted at that. "One doesn’t need to, Pellinore. Especially when I can clearly see what you are envisioning in that exceptional head of yours!" Before Pellinore could sputter with indignation, Kearns snatched his hand and began dragging his befuddled companion toward the stairs.

“Well, let’s get started before night falls upon us fully Pellinore! After all, I heard that is reserved for other, more earthly delights!" Kearns winked. Pellinore crossed his arms, glowering at him, but ineffectively so, as color still fanned across his cheeks.

Kearns bounded up the narrow stairs, his footfalls vanishing as he disappeared into the house.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Pellinore Warthrop strode up the stairs, repeating the day’s findings in his head like a soothing mantra, but cursing mildly under his breath.


End file.
